Oversexed Bullsh*t Perfect Love Montage.

We’re taught to love love and seek out perfection. We’re not taught how to get along with our loved ones, or argue kindly. We’re all playing house. ~ Dr. Willard Evans

The oversexed Honeymoon was climaxing, and after peaking it would sigh, and fade. Winter wanted in.

“You’re so handsome,” she whispered to him, as he roamed his old Victorian, looking vainly (and, in vain) for his French press. “I need coffee,” he grinned, coming back to her and lifting her up, she was wearing only boxers and an old, soft tee shirt of his. He lifted her onto the cool granite counter, it chilled her thighs, and he kissed her sunlit neck and she sighed and leaned her arms back, her hands holding her up against his roaming mouth.

They were both perfect, like new action figures just out of the mold. But like action figures, or the tin man, or Pinocchio, neither one had a heart. And so they acted their way through the motions of love, like the rest of their generation they’d seen enough movies to know what it looked like.

And so, oh, for now…they were drowning in love, like fat donuts swimming in a tub of hot oil. They made love whenever they didn’t know what to do. They made love for way too long, like something out of one of those Tantra books hippieyuppie types always have by their bedside tables.

They made love. He from behind, she twirling her thick redbrown hair behind her so it stayed out of her face, both of them looking in the big wardrobe mirror. Standing, he from behind, she with one leg on the couch. He from behind, she touching her toes (“I thought I’d shake things up,” she said). Her legs wrapped around his hips, his strong arms lifting her up, she bending back, breasts heaving earthward, her face contorting in unselfconscious, delicious agony. Outside, on his deck, the stars above, he wondering if they could stay so happy, her frilly underwear still on, just pulled to the side. Downtown, one night, they nuzzled against her SUV for hours, until 130 am, jokers bicycling by yelling things at them.

Eco Boy was less perfect, though, and he felt the stirrings of doubt first. He wondered what this love was, and how long it could last, and who she really was beneath the fog of their enthusiasms. But he only half-wondered—mostly he thought about where they would live and their children and his future Presidency and the full amazing world, un-realized, that was made holographically real by the whirring of their infatuation (love).

But it’s impossible to think critically about love, after sex, when you’re spent, lying prone on a sweaty bed (gotta wash those organic sheets in the morning, again, hang ‘em in the backyard, no need to use the dryer when it’s 100 in June). He only had just enough energy to relive their recent good times, his mind, drugged on love, filled with corny romcom montage scenes…

…And how they giggled in public, and dressed beautifully and spent money at seeandbeseenlookatusweresohappy restaurants. He waited for her to pretend to offer to pay, then paid. If it was brunch, he let her go dutch.

…How they went to Outdoor Cinema, and held hands, and holding hands was just as good as any of the sex.

…How she whispered in his ear and how he, grazing her neck below her perfect jaw with his lips, held her with one hand just at the top of her butt.

…How her long bangs fell around her huge, dark, sunset eyes or how her warm, alabaster skin looked like burnt copper in the bitter bar’s dimlit living room, where she said, “herringbone, perfect,” after he found a biglong worthy couch for them to cuddle up in, by the fake gas fire…he drank damn good scotch, from the Isle of Skye, with just one oversized ice cube (the award-winning bar filtered the water for their pure ice, doing it right) and she drank an “I don’t like girly drinks,” as he condescendingly put it, until she made him sip it and he admitted, “Mmmmm.”

…And how she joined him at a political party and she looked like Daisy out of Gatsby and everyone assumed they were a couple, which they weren’t, really, officially, but damn they looked the part. And how he was tired and leaned against the wall during one of the boring speeches and she smiled at him, a young tired giant, convinced he was old and defeated. She took care of him and they sat in a field and watched two strange donkeys eat grass and she reminded him, like the first touch of sunlight after winter, that he was okay.

…And how they sat in another restaurant, surrounded by beautiful people they barely knew, tight together, she fit him like a glove and he fit her like a glove and they were friends, comfortable. There was no game-playing, no awkward pushy entreating overcharming texts, no braveheart phone calls…it was as easy as hanging out with one of his best guy buddies, only she was hot. Stylish. A former model, which unnerved him…models are crazy, they come too young into a cruel world of crazy money and desire and greed. Parents don’t let your tallthin youngsters fall into that world…tell them they’re better than that, and push them into theater, and acting, that’s bad enough.

And how they sat on his porch one morning after a walk to his neighborhood cemetery with his dog, and they earnestly argued about how to deal with this cruel, disappointing world… “Everyone’s all bought and paid for,” he complained…integrity more rare than diamonds. And when she smiled she smiled big, her perfect white teeth all in a military row, ready for the sergeant’s review. And she talked about how she oughta start up a simple elegant ecofashion line in Cambodia, she would pay former sex workers fair wages and give those with HIV a chance. And she felt like a better person, just thinking about it. She had the education, talent and money to better the world.

But she was lazy, it was too much work, she was crazy, she liked drama more than actually getting things done, and she was realistic enough to know that when the love (infatuation) faded, she’d be right back to not giving a shit about anything other than her own pursuit of happiness.

But in the hazy phase of their jealous sun love they both felt like better people, his loneliness and horniness dissolved into her first lovey projections of him and into her golden legs and perfect surfer’s ass. And her poverty mentality / trustafarian laziness faded beneath the bright hot worldchanging fervor of Eco Boy—he saw himself in almost childlike Tolkeinian terms, a hero to peaceably fight the war against the forces of fear and greed and hatred.

As long as they fulfilled one another’s longings and lazinesses, as long as they talked in hushed whispers and dreamed of easy futures together, and as long as they didn’t have to deal with reality or do the dishes or get to know one another, their love was perfect.

And perfect love, as we know, comes cheap, on Netflix, $20/month. In Romantic Comedies, real grounded human relationships take place…never.

It's not a true story, but it's from my life, so it's a dozen relationships all mixed together, and the boy isn't really me, but mostly me
it's autobiographical fiction, they call it.
not about me, or my life, but using the ingredients.

having just done this thing, the autobiography thinly disguised (well what the heck, i now made it into narrative non fiction) I admire your willingness to write about self, disparagingly. I wonder if we get more of an inner world identification wtih eco boy, or if the whole novella stays in this omniscient narrative voice. Which is okay, but I can see myself not really liking or identifying with the character/s and losing interest over time, despite some of the cleverness here.

They're not meant to be likeable, yet…read a few more of the chapters, if so inspired, that'll be clear. They really are just that: clever, superficial, trendy, childish…for now. Broken hearts have a way of disappointing the ego and growing us up, whether we like it, or more likely, not.